If the Buddha Got Stuck_ A Handbook for Change on a Spiritual Path - Charlotte Sophia Kasl [3]
The discord between my life and my dream crashed together on a Monday in August. I awoke, sunlight streaming on the bed, a chirping squirrel near my window promising a beautiful day. Euphoria gave way to despair when I remembered the looming deadline. A voice inside was shouting, “I hate myself, I hate my life, I’m doing what I said I would never do again. I’m writing in August. I’m always showing up late to gatherings and leaving early, driven by a deadline.” I sat bolt upright, invigorated by this clear, truthful alarm. But a dreary thought argued back: “If I’m going to meet the deadline, I have to write all day . . . and all this week, and all next week. What is life for?” I thought of August slipping away.
A knot tightened in my stomach as I remembered that this was the first day of the International Choral Festival, a glorious once-in-three-years event, at which over thirty choirs from all over the world bring an array of culture, tradition, and music to our little town. After having missed most of the performances three years before while I was writing, I had vowed that this time I’d clear my calendar and make the rounds of the parks, churches, and shopping malls to hear the various choirs throughout the week. Instead, here I was again—torn and guilty.
I called my agent.
“There’s too much pressure. I want to change the publication date,” I said. She kindly pointed out that I should try to get the book out for Valentine’s Day and gently urged me to believe I could.
Like a reverberating chant, I heard myself saying, “I don’t care. I don’t care about the number of books we sell. I don’t care about the money. I don’t care if we get better publicity if it comes out in February. I don’t care! I care about my knee, my health, my life, and the pleasure I once felt from writing.”
As my voice got more desperate, a charge of energy welled up inside me like a volcano about to erupt. For a moment I hovered between pushing it down or letting it rise. It broke through and tears exploded: “I can’t do it all. I hate myself. I promised I would never do this to myself again,” I said, sobbing. “We have to change the publication date.”
It was as if a strong wind had blown away the dissonance inside. I was aware of breathing again. I realized that ultimately I could make a choice even if it meant a lot of people would be disappointed or even angry at me. It’s my life, I kept thinking to myself.
After a long pause my agent said softly, “Of course.”
Later that afternoon, my editor called back, a friendly smile in her voice. “I heard the news,” she said. “I’m calling with encouragement and support. We can change the publication date. It will be a wonderful book.”
In the late afternoon, feeling the elation of someone who had just graduated or gotten out of prison, I arrived at Bonner Park with a large green folding chair, a roasted chicken from Safeway, romaine lettuce, and a New Yorker magazine. I planted myself front row center of the band shell and relished the sight of people gathering at the park with their chairs, blankets, and picnic paraphernalia, ready to enjoy the music. I read, well, mostly looked at New Yorker cartoons, ambled around, chatted with friends, and finally settled in to hear the singing—most notably the Cuban Exude chorus, with their colorful, tightly woven harmonies and rhythms. Later, at home, I sat on my deck drinking tea, watching the first stars appear.
Several days later, having enjoyed concerts, walks, and spending time with friends, the writing muses invited me back with clarity and pleasure. With the pressure gone, I relaxed at the computer, feeling back in my own life.
I would keep the promise to myself. The book would get written and I would have a life.
Welcome to the Journey
The purpose of life is to be alive. Not